


While Daddy's Away, Pet Will Play

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The Quidditch Pitch: The Ladies Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 17:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10813890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: With Vernon on a business trip and Dudley away on holiday with Piers, Petunia gets very, very lonely.





	While Daddy's Away, Pet Will Play

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Written for Wave I of the [HP Squick FQF](http://www.salamanderswands.com/squick), Pairings Challenge #20. As far as I can tell, this is the only Petunia/Marge smutfic in existence. Can no one recognize an OTP when s/he sees one?! Beta by Flora Hart, whose scars are still healing. **Warnings:** Squick, sex toys, voyeurism.

* * *

Petunia flitted around the house like a woman possessed. Nervously, she fluffed couch cushions, scrutinised countertops for invisible dust, and rubbed down the large mirror in the drawing room. Tea, which she had prepared long ago, grew cold, forgotten in the kitchen. 

After one more perfunctory wipe of cloth, she nodded once, wringing her hands fretfully. She removed her apron and, returning to the kitchen, replacing it with another one – her best apron, the lace-edged one with the dainty pockets. The first time she wore that apron, Vernon told her she was a domestic goddess, a vision in pink and lace. Spotting the cup of tea, she quickly swallowed the bitter dregs, succeeding in pinching her face even more than usual. 

Petunia truthfully hated every moment when Vernon and her ickle Duddykins were away. They were her entire reason for living and the house seemed so empty without their large presences filling it up. Dudley – the dear boy – was away doing charity work with his friend, Piers Polkiss. She'd written him a cheque with no hesitation when he explained how he and Piers were going to spend the weekend delivering meals to the homeless in London. Her son was a complete angel! Giving up a weekend of his summer vacation so he could help their social lessers. Of course, she'd also permitted him to take her car. Boys needed transportation. 

Vernon would also be away the entire weekend. Her hard-working man needed to dash off to Edinburgh on a business trip. He was quite important to Grunnings, after all, and they had to send their best. Petunia was bursting with pride for her family, even if that left her all alone. She missed Vernon's hot breath on her neck while she slept and their daily lovemaking. For Vernon and Petunia Dursley were truly insatiable. Each morning, she'd look forward to digging her nails into his soft flesh, giving him a proper, wifely send-off before he headed off to work. 

Petunia performed all her duties to the best of her ability. 

It was Vernon who suggested that Marjorie come to stay with Petunia, so she didn't get lonely. In his sexy, booming voice, he'd said lovingly, "Daddy wouldn't want anything to happen to his Pet! You and Marge can talk about sewing or cooking and the weekend will just fly by. I'll be back before you can even miss me." 

Petunia sat at the table, head in hands. She missed her Vernon terribly already and he'd been gone only a scant few hours. 

Suddenly, the familiar opening strains of "Greensleeves" filled the house. It was the doorbell, signalling Marge's arrival. Petunia simply loved Greensleeves and a singing doorbell seemed so _classy_. She quickly rinsed her cup, then leaped up to answer the door. Flinging open the door, Petunia opened her mouth to greet her guest. 

Ripper, the ancient, filthy mongrel, tore through the house, leaving a trail of slobber in his wake. Abruptly stopping in the dining room, he curiously sniffed the leg of the newly polished dining room table, lifted his leg, and promptly urinated. Petunia closed her eyes, as though she was in pain, just as she was enveloped in a stifling hug courtesy of her sister-in-law. 

Marge laughed heartily when she observed what Ripper had done. "Ah, dogs will be dogs, eh, Petunia? It's been a long trip." 

Biting her tongue to ask why the beast couldn't have done his business outside, Petunia shuffled off to the kitchen to fetch a towel and a spray bottle of cleaning solution. "Hello Marjorie," she finally greeted in her best hostess voice, a position somewhat thwarted because she was crouching by her table leg. 

"Petunia, d'ya got anything to nosh on? I'm famished!" Marge rubbed her fleshy middle and said, "A girl's got to eat, right? Else you'll end up all skin and bones." 

Petunia observed her own angular form and scowled. "Right away, Marge, dear!" she trilled cheerily. Best to make her guest feel at home. A lady will always make her guest feel at home. Petunia repeated this mantra over and over. A lady is never rude. Petunia would never, ever allow herself to be rude to her own family. 

She set to work, piling meat, cheese, and bread on a plate and served it up in the dining room. Daintily, she sat next to Marge and nibbled on a piece of bread. Marge had already made herself comfortable. Her dress had ridden up to her thighs, exposing support hose that partially covered vein-lined legs. Legs spread, slouched in a chair, she assembled a sandwich that would have put dear Duddy's appetite to shame and fed the few scraps left over to Ripper, who snarled and drooled on Marge's stocking feet and Petunia's formerly spotless carpeting. 

Marge ate like she hadn't eaten for days, smacking her lips and occasionally licking her fingers in order to capture an errant piece of food. Around a mouthful of turkey, she asked her host, "Got anything to drink, Pet?" 

Pet. Petunia closed her eyes at the use of Vernon's nickname for his sweetheart and she felt a warmth spread from her head, to her groin, and right out her toes. Petunia was startled by the reaction, but not particularly displeased. She then realised that Marge was probably awaiting an answer to her question. "Of course, Marge. Water? Juice?" 

"I was thinking of something a little stronger." Marge crooked her elbow and mimicked a hand holding a flask. Ah. 

Petunia smiled. "Brandy, then?" She stood up to uncap the glass decanter that sat in the dining room corner. 

"That'll do nicely." Marge burped, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Vernon did the same thing after a particularly satisfactory meal. Petunia's fingers flexed around the decanter's cap just a bit too tightly and her knees liquefied. Oh, but she missed her husband so much! Petunia poured a large amount of liquor into a tumbler and, after a moment's thought, poured a shot into a second. Petunia thought she might need a drink. 

Upon spying the two glasses, Marge laughed heartily. "Bring the whole thing over!" said Marge. "I'm feeling very, very thirsty." Petunia complied, setting down both glasses, the decanter between them. Perhaps she was feeling very, very thirsty, too. 

*** 

The two women steadily made their way through the bottle of brandy, Marge consuming far more than Petunia did. Petunia, who rarely drank, was already feeling a bit tipsy after her third glass, but even in her inebriated state, she realised that the formerly full container was now three-fourths empty. 

Next to her, Marge grew more and more red-faced. Ripper whined and growled at her feet, frustrated when the steady stream of snacks ceased. Marge dabbed at her face with a greasy handkerchief, sweat streaming down her temples. A large droplet rolled down her forehead, her nose, landing with a splash on the milky white, blue veined...exposed...thigh. 

"Is it hot in here?" Marge breathed. 

Petunia nodded emphatically. Feeling light-headed, she stumbled off to turn up the air conditioning. It _was_ the summer, she reasoned. Petunia was just hot because it was July. 

She wasn't hot because she was imagining whether Marge's moustache would feel the same between her legs as Vernon's. 

She wasn't hot because Marge kept wetting her lips in a completely indelicate manner. 

She wasn't hot because she just remembered that she didn't drink often as it made her incredibly horny. 

No. 

It was only the weather. 

Petunia sat down again, shifting her weight uncomfortably, but not because of any growing wetness in her knickers. 

Then, Marge's head lolled to one side and, with heavily lidded eyes, stared at Petunia for just a second too long, and placed a fat hand on Petunia's knee. "Pet...pretty, pretty Pet. I 'ways wondered what you'd look likesh with your clothesh off," she slurred. Before Petunia could react, Marge leaned in and mashed her lips to her sister-in-law's. Petunia opened her mouth, making a high, keening sound when Marge's large tongue settled inside. As the tongue thrashed around Petunia's mouth heedlessly, she happily discovered that Marge's moustache did feel like Vernon's, as it scratched the sensitive skin of her face. Oh, nothing turned Petunia on more than whiskers. 

"Upstairs?" Petunia suggested, standing. Marge groaned and, with effort, hoisted herself of the chair, heading in the direction of bedroom. 

***

Once in the bedroom, Marge clumsily fumbled with the buttons on Petunia's dress, slobbering all over Petunia's face in the process. Petunia shivered. How did Marge know this was exactly how Vernon kissed? Momentarily breaking the kiss, Petunia helpfully pulled Marge's shirt over her head, exposing acres of white, easily pliable flesh. She pressed her hand into Marge's generous stomach, fascinated when her hand left its indelible imprint for several seconds after it was removed. 

Petunia stepped out of her dress, letting it pool around her ankles, leaving her dressed in only a flesh-coloured, shapeless slip. Marge, meanwhile, was struggling, so Petunia tugged Marge's skirt to the floor. 

Marge, now dressed in an enormous pointy bra, and giant white panties, stooped over for a moment, hands on her knees. "Give me a moment, Pet," she said, breathless and sweaty from effort. "Stairs don't agree with me." Petunia nodded sympathetically and led Marge to the bed, so she could sit. Once there, Petunia tugged Marge's knickers to the floor, Marge groaning when forced to move, then unhooked the clasps on her bra. Marge's pendulous breasts, now freed, hung to her stomach, nipples pointing downward. Petunia was delighted. Marge and her brother could practically be twins, if not for a certain missing part of anatomy. 

And, that, of course, could be changed. With effort, Petunia pushed the heaving Marge into a supine position at the head of the bed, legs akimbo. Marge looked on interestedly when Petunia leaped up to rustle through her chest of drawers. In the bottom of one compartment, she found what she was looking for. 

"What's that?" Marge inquired. 

"It's...well, it's something you can put on, so that...I use it on Vernon sometimes," said Petunia, blushing, holding up the toy. "I can put it on you, so that you...so you can be _inside me_." 

"Oh!" exclaimed Marge, understanding. "You want me to fuck you with your strap-on." Petunia nodded. "Well, hook ‘er up, Pet. I have no idea where to put all that and, besides, I'm a little far gone." She laughed heartily and belched again. Petunia swooned, unable to reach Marge fast enough. 

Starting at the ankles, Petunia pushed the harness into place. It was like wearing underwear, only the back consisted of only a waistband and two leather straps that circled the back of Marge's dimpled thighs. Petunia thanked herself for buying the adjustable model, as the straps were pulled to their absolute limit. They _did_ fit, though, and that was all that really mattered. 

Marge grunted and hefted herself up to look at the new, artificial addition to her body. She snorted, but Petunia licked her lips and grasped the shaft, causing Marge to gasp. Petunia had chosen this particular toy because of the row of soft bristles that lined the inside the dildo, perfectly positioned to brush up against her clit. And now Marge was reaping the benefits of that particularly useful secret. 

Petunia spread her legs wide, straddling Marge's puffy form, and gratefully sunk onto the synthetic stick, juices already sticking to the inside of her thighs. Moving slowly, Petunia bent her head to capture one of Marge's nipples in her mouth. Marge wheezed and attempted bucking her hips, but that just sent her into a coughing fit. 

Softly, Petunia clucked, "Don't strain yourself, Marjorie. Just lay back and relax." Petunia was quite used to doing all the work in bed. It was just the way she liked things, too. 

Leaning back, Petunia positioned herself like she was sitting in a saddle. Her movements quickened, slamming the plastic prick into her moist cunt over and over. Petunia's voice grew thick and high, desire growing as she watched Marge's folds of skin jiggle rhythmically. Petunia reached down and twisted Marge's nipples. 

A groan escaped Marge's mouth, saliva trickling from the corner of her mouth, and she tried shifting upwards again. Something dangerous flashing in her eyes, Petunia gritted her teeth. "Don't move," she ordered. Petunia fucked Marge even harder, grinding her hips and driving the dildo so deep inside, it was nearly painful. 

Both women began crying out in earnest. 

***

Harry stood outside the doorway, desperately wishing he was blind. Maybe he could gouge out his own eyes! It had to be possible, right? He'd come in from his work in the garden, only to have that blasted dog tear around the corner and sink his teeth into Harry's ankle. He'd gone upstairs, looking for his aunts, intending to ask if the dog needed to be let out. 

A moment ago, his ankle hurt and he didn't feel like he was about to retch all over his shoes and never stop. The door had been a little bit open, odd grunts and squelching noises coming from inside. When he peeked inside, he saw blubber and angles, sweaty flesh on sweaty flesh, his aunt riding his aunt. He drew back instantly, but the image was already burned in his mind. Forever, most likely. 

Just then, he heard Aunt Petunia cry out, "You like me riding you like a pony, don't you?! Just like Daddy! Just like Daddy!" Harry began shivering uncontrollably, now wishing to be deaf, as well as blind. He was completely oblivious to Ripper enthusiastically humping his shin. That day, Harry Potter made a promise to himself that would never, ever be curious again. 

Not. For. As. Long. As. He. Lived. 


End file.
